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I peeled my shirt off over my head and chucked it toward the chair in the corner, missing by a foot. My skin still felt gross, moist and tacky in a way the AC wasn’t going to fix just by standing here.

I ducked into the bathroom and cranked the shower on, keeping the water cool, but not so cool I’d freeze my balls off, then stood under the spray. I was in and out in three minutes, tops. I toweled off, pulled on a pair of sweats and a plain black shirt, and grabbed my phone off the desk, where I’d tossed it on my way in.

I opened up my messages app, clicking on the one pinned to the top.

You still up? I typed.

I stared down at my screen—my thumbnail caught between my teeth, my knee bouncing—while I waited to see if the message would go from “delivered” to “read.”

The screen went black, and I had to wake the damn thing up again. When I did, those three little dots were moving.

C

Yes.

Me

U ok?

C

fine

Me

feeling better?

It took about a minute for him to respond, those dots showing up and disappearing again three different times. When his answer finally came through, I had no fucking clue what had taken so long.

C

Yes

Cally wasn’t the chattiest guy, so one-word answers weren’t all that uncommon from him, but something about these made me think he was lying.

I just needed to see him so I could shut down the nagging part of my mind that was telling me something wasn’t right here.

Me

I left the guys back at the club

Can i come say goodnight?

In person??

C

I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

My stomach dropped, and I flopped backward onto the mattress—my phone resting on my stomach—and stared up at the ceiling. I blew out a breath, telling myself not to be a fucking baby as disappointment coursed through me. Cally was probably just trying not to get me sick.

And yet …

I lifted the phone back up, holding it over my face, and typed out a response, telling myself I needed to be sure, not fully understanding why I was so hell-bent on knowing.

Me

bc you’re sick?